Looking over the work I've produced over the last two decades, it's become clear to me . terribly, undeniably clear . that most of my poems suck. Big time. I'm not as devastated as I worried I would be, mainly because I'm cutting myself boatloads of slack by telling myself things like, "come on, you were a kid when you wrote most of that stuff!" and "at least now you know how to edit properly." I'm also finding comfort in the fact that the more recent my work is, the better it is. That helps. I take it as a sign that I improved over the years, and maybe that means that if I actually stopped torturing myself (see here for ongoing poetry-related mental torture I've created for myself) and just. wrote., it might be halfway decent. Anyway, between it being National Poetry Month and regularly reading all the poetry-related things I follow on Twitter, and the fact that for once people in Miami are doing something big and cool and unique around poetry, I feel inspired enough to share. Except that I'm not going to give up the good stuff. Oh no, I'm going to exorcise old ghosts and share some of my bad, laughable, cringe-inducing poetry. Yeah, we're going there. You just enjoy and be thankful you're not the one who produced this tripe. This first doozy I wrote in high school, possibly in 1994. It's pretty stupid. I wrote it about an ex-boyfriend, I boy I'd dated and really liked who treated me poorly. I wrote this (a couple of years after the break-up) as some silly sort of way to have a last laugh, imagining that his crappy treatment of me bothered him and he missed me. The thing is, years later, I got a letter from him telling me just that: that he had felt badly all those years for how he had treated me and that he knew I'd been a great girl and wished it had all been different. It's my bad, psychic poem. Immortal You laughed when I spoke of my desire to be immortal. Your logical mind thought How could someone so full of shxt like me ever be immortal? But my stubborn soul leaves no room for less of an aspiration. I spoke of my desire a lifetime ago. You did not believe me. And since then, we have shared no more thoughts or words or actions. But I still plague your mind. You still look for me in every corner. Do you believe me now? I wrote this next one in 1996, when I was trapped (yes, trapped) in a horrible relationship. I actually don't hate this one (in fact, terrible or not, I like it), but still. Capitalizing "solitude"? How melodramatic. Looking at you, my Solitude grew endless. I was alone in my emptiness, my nameless, smothering pain. I was wasted, and the silence of you filled my soul with desolation. So I sought out my Solitude, my wastelands - plunging in to drown out your silence. Finally... I don't know, people, I don't know. It was 1996 (a fruitful poetry year), I was 18, and I was feeling all kinds of yearning and longing. I was trying to express some of that here, but... I don't know. So close... but ultimately, FAIL. Sun (A Prophecy) The setting sun glared off her second-story wall, and to me, it was gorgeous. I was at a distance, in the shade - its the story of my life. Why wouldnt the sun glare off me? It is always within my reach, yet it has never fully bathed me. But I am getting closer: in a moments time, I will be the sun, and I will spill over to those in perpetual shade.